


the final terror is in your house

by comewithmenow



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Domesticity, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, M/M, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, eddie has issues with voicing his emotions, richie has issue with guilt, the losers love each other so much dear god, they get their memories back gradually, they try to figure their shit out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-14 13:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21016433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comewithmenow/pseuds/comewithmenow
Summary: He’s not ready to think yet.  Richie knows something horrible sits inside him, something that craves.  Richie’s spent his whole life with evading eyes, lived as a constant force of movement.  There are times where something sneaks into his eyeline like hammocks or arcade lights or a closet where someone’s dying, and he bites it back.  Because staring at anything while it’s still is terrifying.or Eddie and Richie deal with regaining their memories, as well as it's side affects.





	1. regarding after

**Author's Note:**

> hey so i'm going to preface this by saying i've written a shitload of fanfic over time, but i have never posted any of my work on ao3. i have recently caught the flu, and in that time i sat down and wrote this. why i have decided to break my streak of keeping my writing for myself with something for the homophobic clown movie that i wrote in one sitting, i have no fucking clue. this is not beta read and i also have terrible dyslexia, so please let me know if you see any errors
> 
> title from car seat headrest's sober to death

Eddie dies. Richie watches as Eddie dies. Eddie, who had ran to him with a bright as heaven smile, shining through the sickly green light that covered him and the grime coating his face. 

“Rich,” Eddie says. “I did it. I killed It. I – ”

And then Richie watches as a growing dark shadow washes over Eddie, and somewhere deep down he knows what’s about to happen, but all he does is watch. Then Eddie is impaled.

Something foreign and dark fills Richie’s body as he sees it. He goes completely numb, absent from his body. He is struck with something heavier than fear. Eddie is saying his name, nothing at all like before. Richie wants to make him stop. Eddie’s blood is all over Richie, he can taste it, _ there is too much fucking blood _. As Eddie’s life is leaking out of him, Richie holds him, touches his face to make sure he’s still there. Richie whispers nonsense to him, tells him it’s all okay, tells him that he’s strong enough. The other’s call him, because the fuckers still going, and they need to end this. He tells Eddie he will be back and asks him to hold on just a little longer.

Richie fights tooth and nail, screaming and crying and aching. He feels something hot bubbling under his skin, scorching his veins with pounding rage. They kill It, but he isn’t relieved. 

When he comes back Eddie is gone. Last thing on his lips were Richies name and a couple of laughs. Richie wishes that made him feel something like peace, but it doesn’t. Richie collapses, but Eddie doesn’t catch him, because Eddie is dead. No Ben catches him, and drags him away, screaming and fighting. 

They have to make him see daylight and breathe air again, like that means something now. They all try to comfort him and he tries to let them. But that doesn’t take away the burning bit in the center of him, or the aching pain leeching it’s way through his whole body. 

They go back to the town house and Richie doesn’t say a word, he just slips back into his room to fall on his bed, where he know he won’t sleep. He wants to decompose there, let everything fall away so he can just lay. After it all the day had felt hazy, like he was never standing on solid ground. He breathes deep and shackled. He’s ready for things to stop. Richie thinks he’s still back there with Eddie, or who ever Richie was is there. Now he is just a husk, cut out and hollowed. Then he can hear the guest next door’s TV, and he’s pulled back. That’s the horrible thing about it; the sky isn’t falling, the ocean hasn’t dried up, the forests aren’t all burning. The world will continue to keep on going. Richie is going to have to continue on going. The sun must set, and the earth must rotate. Time marches on, and makes no exceptions. That’s the thing about facing a monstrous being during your most fragile years, you are deathly aware of the inherent evils the world is filled of. There is no mercy. So Richie closes his eyes.

And then everything drops away and richie is falling. The hard rock of the cave hits him, _ something solid _, he thinks. It is cold and slick and defintently cutting him up. Vile green light pools over him and he realizations flows through his body. He had been caught in the deadlights. He is back in the caverns, it’s fucking impossible, but he is back. 

Then Eddie comes into view, smiling like last time. So much pride and hope, Richie feels sick. Richie takes him in, and he feels his blood run again. Then he sees the shadow and his heart kickstarts and he’s moving. Richie grabs hold of him, pushing Eddie flush against him, and rolls to his right. The moment he realizes Eddie is not bleeding out against him this time, Richie takes his hand and pulls them up, quickly leading them into another crevice between the rocks. _ Not this time _ , he thinks, _ not again, he will let atlas fall before he loses him again _. 

Then they battle It. Richie still tears It’s limb off, never losing his rage, and Eddie yells so loud that Richie feels it rattle through him. They win, they fucking win, and Eddie is there to bare witness.

Richie relives the day. It is the same beat for beat. Except Eddie is next to him. Eddie comes out of neibolt with them and Richie keeps a hand grasped on him the whole crawl out. Eddie watches it collapse with him, and fucking laughs as it falls through the Earth. He’s lets a bright smile spread across his face as they walk away, they all return it. There is a new brightness to world that Richie had never seen before, like a painting restored. A vibrancy falls over everything like first dawn.

Beverly still jumps first, but it is somehow different. She’s not running from gnawing hell this time, she’s running towards something much sweeter. She leaps like she weighs nothing, like life is breathing it self back in to her. This is celebration, not mourning. The guys cheer and pile on after her, like giddy school boys again. Richie holds back, Eddie follows suit.

“Aren’t you gonna jump,” Richie asks.

“I have an open wound on my face, I’m not about to jump into that fucking cest pool,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t meet Richies eyes. Richie makes a point not to remind him of how he crawled through _ grey water _ today. “Alright suit yourself, “ Richie replies.

As he goes to leap something holds him back. A spark of fear pumps through his chest, _ no, no, no, It’s fucking dead this time, we kill _ _ — _

Eddie is holding his wrist, not tight, but it feels somehow desperate. If Richie was dumb enough he’d think he was pleading. “Sorry,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t drop his hand. “I just wanted to, uh I mean that, well um-”

“Funny Bill impression, but I have a few notes,” Richie says.

“Would you shut the fuck up for more than twenty seconds,” Eddie says.

“Well you know that I—”

“No, I don’t, so will you please just listen to me. Why do I even fucking try with you Richie, Christ, “ Eddies sighs, as he rubs his eye with the palm thats not clasped around Richie’s wrist. They are quiet for a moment. Then Eddie hitches another breathe and says, “Look you saved my fucking life today Rich, like I was a hair away from being impaled, fucking impaled, or worse. But you _ saved _ me, and you gotta know-” 

“Don’t,” Richies says. He can’t right now. The world hasn’t stopped feeling like it’s not spinning and his ears have been ringing so much he’s shocked they aren’t bleeding. He can’t think about how he and Eddie are touching, skin to skin, and how he is coming up hot like desolate fire because of it. That Eddie initiated that touch. He didn’t save Eddie. He watched Eddie bleed out and cry his name and circle into hysterics. Richie left him. He let the earth fallout and swallow Eddie whole. 

“But—”

“You don’t gotta say that shit, Spaghetti Man,” he says. “All in a day's work of being Derry’s local hero.”

Eddie stares at him now, and Richie can’t place the look in his eyes, can’t quite map out why his eyebrows are drawn up that way, and to be honest, he doesn’t have the energy to try. Eddie just sighs, _ again _, and says, “Fuck off.” He drops his hand, and Richie tries not to think about how cold his wrist feels, like phantom touch. 

Richie takes this time to jump, because unlike Bev, he’s always going to be running from something. He’s not ready to think yet. Richie knows something horrible sits inside him, something that craves. Richie’s spent his whole life with evading eyes, lived as a constant force of movement. There are times where something sneaks into his eyeline like hammocks or arcade lights or a closet where someone’s dying, and he bites it back. Because staring at anything while it’s still is terrifying. 

When he hits the water, it feels different this time too, last time it felt like shattering something and he had choked on water coming up. But this time around, it feels like rebirth, not quite the feeling of getting clean, but of being new. Then Eddie came crashing down.

“I thought you didn’t want to get your face hole dirty,” Richie asks.

“Fuck off,” Eddie snaps, but he soon goes quieter. “I didn’t like being up there. Alone.”

Richie feels a collective understanding flow through them.

Bev goes and hugs him and Eddie lets her. Then Bill follows, and soon they all end up piled on top of each other, not quite ready to let each other go. They keep a pleasant quiet, not because of lack of words, but because of a need for a moment of peace.

“I can’t believe how much I missed you guys,” Ben finally breaks the silence. “Even though I couldn’t remember, I felt you guys missing, like a phantom limb or something.”

“It was hard when you all left,” Mike joins in. “It a got a little easier with time, I was home, but nothing was familiar. I was always reminded of the places you weren’t. The moment I first saw bill at the Orient, God it was like my chest cracked open. I felt like I was finally coming home.”

“Christ you all went soft,” Richie says. 

Bev splashes him in the face right as Eddie tells him to shut up. 

And they are all laughing and splashing each other some more, like they’re twelve again and things are allowed to be simple. They bask in the joy that is each other’s presence, thankful for the warm late summer air.

And they’re okay.

When they finally get back to the Town House, Richie suggests they all stay in the same room. Everyone goes quiet and their eyes fall to him, he feels his cheeks burn. He’s about to brush it off with a joke about orgies, and finally getting a look at ben's new everything, when Bev says, “Yeah, I don’t think I can let any of you guys out of my sight for awhile.”

They all kind of nod and hum in agreement.

“We did t-t-this when we were k-kids right,” Bill asks looking around at the rest of them. “At my place a-after, It. After we k-k-killed, I-I mean when we t-t-thought we k-killed It.”

“Yeah, that’s right, “ Ben says, sounding off somewhere. “We would have a sleepover at someone’s house like every night the week after It.” A dawning moment of realisation then spreads across the group and their eyes all light up with a memory. Richie thinks about how weird this all is, Eddie had called it brain damage, well Richie’s glad that it’s collective. The thought of remembering alone twists his stomach. 

That's when he’s hit with another memory. It’s of him sneaking through Eddie’s window, somewhere between thirteen and seventeen, maybe all three, and he had crawled under Eddie’s covers and branded himself against him, letting their breathes sync. Everything looked soft and rounded, only illuminated by the street light reaching in. He then gets an image of Eddie facing him, with blotchy cheeks and glossy eyes that looked strangely sparkly in the darkness. Richie held him, pressed his face into his hair, he had smelled so _ nice, _ and Richie kept repeating over and over, _ I know, I know, I know. _

He looks up to find Eddie staring at him with a foggy expression, so yeah, they got the same memory. _ Fucking freaky. _

They decide on Ben’s room because Ben’s an angel who wouldn’t mind ripping apart his hotel room for five other people to cram themselves in. Also his room is the halfway point for everybody. Richie walks in with an arm full of sheets and comforters, to see a hotel room a tab larger than his, with two beds, one of which seems to already be claimed by Ben and Bev. 

“Suitcases go in that corner,” Mike calls from his place on the only chair in the room. He turns to see of course a corner with everyone's suitcases and bags stacked together. He drops his stuff off with the rest, sits down on the ground with his back against the empty bed, closes his eyes for just a second, and breathes.

He looks around for a second, catalogues his weird array of friends. Ben and Beverly are on the other bed facing each other like two crescent moons, not quite sleeping not quite awake, just still. Mike is sat with his legs outstretched on the chair, flipping through a book. Richie notices he’s wearing readers, _old_ _man_, he thinks with a smile. Bill is resting against the side of Mike's chair with his head leaning on the armrest. They’ve been together again for less than three days, and already they are so wrapped in each other. 

Richie had forgotten what it meant to be a part of something. To fully understand the meaning of being something greater than the sum of its parts. Richie built his whole life around forcing himself into the center of attention. Taught himself to be loud and abrasive, so the only possible reaction to him was to laugh. Impossible not notice, impossible not to forget. But here right now in this pocket of a room, with the Losers, _ his _ Losers, he is allowed to be quiet.

Then there’s a knock at the door. There is a collective jump in the room. He thinks they’ll be seventy when the feeling of being watched starts to subside, when the dread starts to seep away. 

“Uhh, guys? It’s me,” Eddie calls, from behind the door. Then a collective sigh of relief.

“What’s the password,” Richie calls back, putting on a classic game show host Voice.

“Shut up, Richie.”

“Close but no cigar. The correct answer was Sonia.”

Bill gets the door, and reveals Eddie, well not so much Eddie but a mountain of suitcases, bags, and bedding, with Eddie somewhere underneath. Richie let’s out whistle, “Bring the whole house why don’t you.”

“Ha ha,” Eddie mocks as he files into the room. “I’m sorry that I like to be prepared.”

“No such thing as being prepared in Derry, Eds. You got stabbed today, we killed an alien. I don’t think you can fit what we need to survive this town in a toiletry bag.”

Eddie goes quiet for second before he says, “I, uh, kind of forgot I got stabbed, actually.”

“What,” Bev says, sat up now fully awake. The whole listens, quietly intrigued.

“I know this makes me sound actually batshit, but a _ lot _ happened today so please cut me some slack. So I went to take a shower ‘cause I’m covered in sewer shit and blood and alien whatever the fuck. But when I go to step in my bathroom, I realize, well, it’s covered in blood, not Bev’s bathroom covered, but still a significant amount. So I had a bit of a panic attack and then I remembered that half of it’s my blood and that the other half is from the guy _ I _ stabbed. So I said fuck that noise, and I left. Anyway long story short, Ben can I _ please _ use your shower.” 

Everyone is a little stunted by that. Richie snorts. Ben says, “Of course man, go right ahead.”

Eddie looks tired. Well they all do, but Richie notices something different in Eddie. Richie feels like his bones are going to combust in the next hour, and he’s not even physically injured. Eddie must be absolutely aching. What he wouldn’t give so that they can all just go to sleep and forget about everything they did in the past twenty four hours.

Then a switch goes off. Realization spreads through Richie's body. 

Richie forgot he killed a guy today. _ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _ Okay maybe Eddie’s expierence is slightly universal. Richie jumps up, which actually really fucking hurts, ( _ God he’s getting old and God he killed a guy _) and claps his hand together to say, “Okay change of plans. We need to go down to the police station, like now.”

“What,” Bill and Eddie say in unison. Everyone turns to him with different varients of conflused faces.

But then Mike is standing up with him. “No, Richie’s right.”

“Yeah, I’m right Mike said so,” Richie says a little frantically. “So vominos, allons-y, lets get the fuck out of here.”

“Why are we going to the police station,” Ben finally asks.

“‘Cause I killed a guy,” Richies says. “Trying to save Mike, and we know what the police— what the town will do will do to him if they know he’s involved.”

_ Oh _. The whole room processes that one again.

“Fuck, we’re adults,” Bev says. Then she puts her face in her hands and makes a kind of guteral sound. “We can’t just fucking have a sleepover. We’re adults and we have responsiblities. Why the fuck isn’t Eddie in a hospital?”

They all look at Eddie, and he crosses his arms, sheepish. “Let’s focus on MIke right now.”

“W-what are you planning on t-telling the police,” Bill asks Richie and Mike 

That’s when they all decide to lie to the police. Bev takes charge.

“Richie and Mike, you are going to go down to the police station and you are going to tell them that your friend has been stabbed. I do _ not _ want you to tell them about Richie killing Bowers, or Bowers trying to kill Mike, we can’t have you guys involved like that. I don’t care what somersaults you have to make up to get the _ Derry Police _ , I mind you, to buy into your bullshit, but please do it. Mike I know you know this better than any of us, stay _ safe, _” Bev says. There's something fierce in her eyes, her hands are balled up into fists, not out of rage but out of steadiness, and her jaw is set when she continues, “I’m taking Eddie to the hospital for the damn hole in his face. Ben and Bill stay here in case anything goes wrong on either ends of the plan, okay?” She says that last bit to Ben, and something about her goes soft around the edges. Something in Richie’s chest blooms for her. 

Then they’re off.

Eddie is sat shotgun in Bev’s rental car. The world passing them outside looks hollow and cold despite the humidity that came with the summer months. Stagnant life just outside his window. _ You’re braver than you think _, Richie told him. He leans his head back and tries to focus on his breathing. Once one of his Doctors had told Eddie about mindfulness and the importance of breath (she had also told him that there was a high possibly that he had an anxiety disorder, Eddie didn’t go back). Eddie is acutely aware of the weight his body holds, the heaviness of each bone. As if his body was slowly sinking, and the earth was trying to call him back. He’s also pretty aware of the throbbing pain coming from his cheek. The clock on the car radio reads 11:23. He is a forty year old man, who has a cerfew at 9:40, and he is fucking exhausted. So he tells Bev that, because she is understanding.

“Then go to sleep, you almost died like eight times today,” she says, not once taking her eyes off the road, and Eddie thanks her for that in his head.

“Bev—”

“No Eddie, I am driving _ you _ to the hospital, you don’t have to keep watch on me, I’m fine. You can leave me alone and sleep.” She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. Beverly’s shoulders sag just slightly, just enough for Eddie to see. There are scarce moments where Bev holds herself totally carefree, untouched by the world around her. He can’t wait for her to leave Derry, and get a nice cosy bed, and fresh air, and the world having color again. For her to breathe like she doesn’t owe the world shit. 

“You don’t have to be, though. Alone, I mean. I don’t want you to be, at least,” Eddie finally says making a point to look at her, really look at her.

She takes her eyes off the road now, meeting his with pleading veracity. He prays she knows what he's telling her. That he’s not there because she needs a chaperone, he's there because he needs her to be alright, with the deepest sincerity. 

“Okay.” And she smiles, bright like she used to. Eddie thinks he smiles, too.

When they were younger, Eddie used to yearn for what Richie and Beverly had. How naturally they fell into each other. Easy touches, simple glances, earnest words. Richie always had a place for Bev, a magnetism built in. Of course Eddie and Richie were _ Eddie & Richie: Package Deal _, but he never felt like it was as simple. There was always something underneath Richies smile that Eddie so desperately wanted to unearth. Richie wore Bev on his sleeve, and she kept him on her hip.

She had left on a Sunday afternoon. It was one of those days that was meant for laughing fits and skipping stones, like it had a golden hue. Richie was devastated. 

They said their goodbyes as she hauled her stuff into her aunt’s Jeep, all rosy cheeked in a way that meant tearshed. They clung to her like waves crashing onto shore, like smoke to the flame. Like losing a piece of themselves. She gave them all there own goodbyes, but she didn’t call them that. She had clapsed Eddie’s hand and told him, _ keep fucking fighting Kasprak _. She whispered something secret in Ben’s ear, that made his cheeks and ears burn red, and his eyes go wistful. She kissed his cheek then. She brushed Richie’s cheek and had said, “You should be expecting some mail, Trashmouth.” Then she was off with a gentle wave.

That mail never came. And Eddie, for the first time in his life, was genuinely pissed at Beverly Marsh. It had wrecked Richie. He swore he had the flu for four weeks, after Bev moved, when Eddie knew it was all in his heart. You know it's fucked up when they switch roles like that. He couldn’t imagine Bev, who would hold them all tight to her before she ever let go, leaving them with radio silence.

Six months into Bevs absence he got a phone call. It was a miracle that his mother was out grabbing groceries and new prescriptions. He picked up to hear the crackle of Richie’s voice, basically screaming into the receiver at sixty words a minute. “Richie, you have to slow down, I can’t hear a single thing coming out of your idiot mouth,” Eddie snapped.

“_Meet us at the quarry in like twenty minutes okay, gotta go_,” Richie said. He sounded frantic. He sounded joyful. It was the happiest Eddie had heard him in months.

When Eddie reached the quarry he was met with the other five Losers waiting for him. Wait scratch that, six other Losers. Beverly Marsh stood there proud and smiling, with a look in her eyes like the devil was dancing on her shoulder. He couldn’t help the smile that split his face wide open. Eddie quickly ran to her engulfing her in his arms, with what he thought was the tightest hug he ever given. With his lips pressed to her hair, he said breathless, “It’s you. Its really fucking you.”

“Eddie kaspbrak in the flesh,” She said warm into his ear.

They spent the whole day smiling.

It was a late Thursday afternoon, Bev had been in town for no more than a week, when he heard a knock at his window. No one came to Eddie’s front door because going to Eddie’s front door was death sentence (unless you were Bill or Stan or a pretty girl from church). He was splayed out on his bed flipping through the new edition of _She-Hulk_, not really taking in any of the words he was reading. He pushed himself up and headed toward the window ready to tell Richie to _fuck, right off_.

“My mom’s gonna nail boards to my window if you keep pulling this shit, “ Eddie said.

“Hey, kid.” He looked down to see Beverly staring right up at him, she was biting her lip not to smile.

“What are you doing here,” He asked.

“I don’t know. Just wanted to some fresh air, maybe stretch my legs. Wanna join me,” She gave an award winning smile and crossed her legs.

“Why, are Richie and Ben busy?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” He didn’t expect that one.

“So, you wanna walk?”

“Okay.”

He came downstairs to find his mother sat in her usual spot watching reruns with static on the TV. He took a steadying breath before he said, “Mommy, I'm going out.”

“Oh, and where do you think you’re going now.” She didn’t even look up.

“Out. Getting fresh air.” He hadn’t realized he had balled his hands into fists. His mother just did that to him. Made him clenched. 

“Oh dear, please watch your lungs. The pollen is just wild this time of year, and your allergies are acting up again you know.”

“I’ll be careful, Mommy.” Then he was out the front door, quickly running down his porch steps. Bev was leaning against his mailbox, chewing a piece of gum with mischief in her eyes. 

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” She said with a shit eating grin plastered on her face. Eddie forgot that Bec was _ dorky _. That she had the capability of being just as weird as Richie. He had missed her.

Bev took them to the fields where they slit their palms. Where the Loser’s shared each other for the first time. She fell to the ground with little grace, and spread her arms not unlike a snow angel trading harsh winter for forgiving sunshine. Her hair had grown out just enough to curl around her face, like a halo ablaze. It made Eddie chuckle as he plopped down next to her. The sun was marching it’s way back down to the cooling earth, pulling the summer skyline with it. It painted them a sweet green, like the way the sun bleeds through leaves.

“What’s so funny, Kaspbrak,” she asked, placing an unlit cigarette to her lips.

“It’s just good to have you back, Bev,” Eddie said, not realising the words until they were halfway out his mouth.

She sat up just a bit, balancing her weight on her elbows, to give him a look he couldn’t place. Her mouth was at a crooked angle that didn’t quite match with her tense brows. “You boys are too much for me,” she finally let out with a shake of her head. She took a hit.

“I blame you for Richie’s nicotine addiction,” Eddie said as he shifted his weight onto his palms (_ He was gonna have to scrub his hands like hell that night. He hoped he got dirt under his nails. He wanted to carry this with him. _).

“I told the kid to quit, before it's too late, never listens to me,” Bev was almost laughing. “Only got ears for you, swear to God.”

“You know Richie loves you, right,” Eddie asked.

Bev got a shy smile, something barely there. “Yeah.”

“Then why didn’t you write him.” He didn’t mean for it to come out like that. Eddie was never capable of being gentle, everything just seemed to punch out of him. He tears everything down before any one can beat him there, he holds the control, he plans his pain. 

Bev took a drag from her cigarette, and let out a long exhale. They sat there for awhile in the heavy silence they built themselves. Eddie couldn't quite look at her.

He heard Bev take shaky breath as she said, “You gotta believe me when I tell you that I wish I could.”

He doesn’t know what he’s about to say, because he hears Bev crying, and that about kills him.

“Please Eddie, you can’t call me crazy, not after all the shit we’ve seen. When I left Derry it was like I had left my body. I couldn’t remember anything,” she gasped and her voice sounded thick. There was a heaviness to her words that Eddie felt in him deep. “It was like I had outlines of memories but nothing concrete. Nothing real. I forgot It. I forgot how my dad died. God I forgot your guy’s names. It wasn’t until my Aunt said we needed to visit Derry that I realized something was missing. The moment I went through the town lines it was like opening up a scab, like my heart was leaking. My head hurt Eddie, fucking throbbed. I don’t think it was until I saw all seven of us together that I actually _ knew _ all of it”

She sat up to pull her legs up to her chest, and Eddie realized she was shaking. She looked faraway, a ghost of herself just out of reach. Touch scared Eddie. Touch was an act of exposure. Here's his wrist, here's the blade, he can only ask you not to cut him open. But he reached for Bev then and pulled her tightly in his arms. She hooked her chin on his shoulder, and curled her fingers into his shirt. She smelled of cigarettes and her perfume and fresh grass. It was a while until they felt like they could pull apart.

When they finally parted they both lay in the grass, with their shoulders still touching, a reminder that they were real. “When you left,” Eddie started. “You told me to keep fighting.” Eddie looked out across the horizon, and was grateful that his eyes couldn’t carry him past the trees. He was locked there with Beverly. “What did you mean?” 

“You and me,” Bev looked at him now with a weight that wasn’t there before. “We’re built of the same shit, something deep burns in the both us. So you have to be brave for me, okay?”

Eddie chewed his lip, and made a point to look at her dead in the eyes, and said, “Okay.”

Then he’s back in the front seat again, back in his forty year old body, staring out the windshield into Derry’s dark abyss in front of him. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“You just felt that, Kaspbrak,” He hears Beverly say, pulling him out of his trance. _ Shit. _

Richie walks out of the Derry Police Station wanting to burn it down. 

He also wants to buy Mike a one way ticket to Florida where he can sit on the beach and read his books and feed alligators or whatever the fuck you do in florida. He wasn’t quite a fan of them growing up either, being totally ignorant to the constant child disappearances in your town is a pretty quick turn off, if you ask Richie. He had to learn to watch out for himself, had to understand what it meant to have eyes on the back of your head. But watching them tear into Mike, rip away any semblance of his dignity, made his whole being go rigid. 

On the car ride over they had made up a bullshit story about all coming to Derry as a memorial for the recently passed friend and were very distraught (_ sorry, Stan _), that Eddie had been stabbed by Bowers, and how they were all in hysterics after the event and went looking for Eddie’s assliant, then hours after decided to go to the police station and the hospital. Richie knew it wasn’t a good cover up, but Mike had away about telling it that made Richie trust him.

Mike was the one to report it at the station, but they looked right through him. They turned to Richie, and they prompted him with, “How do you recall the events?”

He gave the exact same story and they ate it up, the bastards. They also told them that they were going to send one of their best officers to check on Eddie in the hospital. Richie hoped they fucking crashed into a ravine. 

Then they asked to talk to Mike, _ separately _. Richie’s blood boiled.

When Mike finally came out after an hour and a half of questioning, with the bags under his eyes far deeper than they had been before, he had looked barren. 

“I can’t wait to get the fuck out of this town,” Richie says on the way to the hospital. “I hope it sinks back into the goddamn ocean.” Mike hums something that sounds like agreement next to him, “I feel you there man.”

Eddie had never feared hospitals, he actually quite likes them. There were codes, rules, and procediers that always had to be followed through. Everything had a rule book, everything had its place. But the moment he walks into Derry’s local hospital, he feels his stomach drop. Nothing is outwardly wrong, but the whole place feels almost almost rotten. It seems like the lights are dimming around them and hitting everything at the wrong angles. Out of the cornor of his eyes everything looks close to rusted. The floor feels like it’s titled and swaying beneath them. He reaches for Bevs arm. 

The nurse at the front desk looks exhausted and so does Bev. Eddie sure as hell feels tired so solidarity in that or whatever. She has them sit in the waiting room, in cramped little chairs, and tells them they must fill out the necessary paperwork before they can see any doctor. 

“How’s your face feel,” Bev asks, not looking up from the hospital papers she is filling out. 

“Like there’s a hole in it,” Eddie says, rubbing the bandage. He only changed it an hour ago, but there's something itching inside him that's telling him he needs new gauze. Maybe it's the hospital, he thinks. Maybe it's Derry.

Bev chuckles, “Glad you’re staying positive.” Eddie takes it back, Bev is not understanding, she is the very opposite and is only out to watch him suffer.

“They better give me fucking stiches.”

They finish filling out their clipboards of information and hand them into the front desk. The nurse tells them to go sit down _ again _, and that the doctor will call them shortly. Eddie takes this time to quietly asks her to please not contact his emergency contact.

“Sir, it’s—” She starts.

“Please,” Eddie’s practically begging, he’s ready to get on his knees if she doesn’t listen.

The nurse doesn’t push it any further. Bev gives him a look. He returns it with a look of his own, that he hopes tells her, _ please don’t press it _.

“God, what I’d give for a cigarette right now,” Bev says when they’re back in their plastic chairs of hell. She leans her head back to stare blankly at the ceiling lights. “Does Richie still smoke?”

“How would I know,” Eddie asks, trying not to snap. 

“I don't know. I'm just used to—” Her words die out at the end, but Eddies knows what she’s saying. There was a time where Eddie was a walking Richie Tozier encyclopedia. He would effortly catalogue each new incoming piece of information and store it away in his mind for the rest of time. He knew Richie’s favorite order at every restaurant, his favorite songs of every month, how he hated that his sister only called on holidays, that he would always blow on playing cards because he was superstitious. He knew what made him Richie. But that was 27 years ago. That was another person ago. “Yeah,” Eddie sighed.

The doctor calls for them not long after.

When they finally get to the ER, The doctors say that Richie can’t go in to see Eddie because he already has a visitor. Richie doesn’t think about what Eddie looks like in a hospital bed. He doesn’t think about how he’s probably sat up in bed wrapped in a flimsy blanket, fingers gripping it in anger, snapping at nurses for screwing up his bandages and not meeting any proper medical codes. He doesn’t wonder what the cops are asking him, or that he hopes Eddie bites their fucking heads off. He’s not thinking about the massive gash carved into Eddie’s face Or that he killed the person who did that to him. He definitely not thinking about how he’s not there. it had been hours since they defeated It, but he can still taste metal.

So Richie takes this opportune time to distract himself in the hospital gift shop. He used to think that having a gift shop in a hospital was rather absurd, but it fits Derry very much to have a store dedicated to celebrating pain. Mike tags along to do something with his hands. They drift through the array of get-well cards and kid games, pointing out something to giggle at every five minutes. Richie gets the impression that the women working there is not a fan of them, by the sharp looks she keeps giving them out of the corner of her eye. That makes him laugh even harder. He picks out a very large and rainbow patterned stuffed snake for Eddie. 

“Hey, I just got a text from Bill,” Mike says at the register. “Ben and him are at the food court.” 

“How the fuck is your phone still working,” Richie asks, putting the brightly colored seprant on the counter.

“I didn’t bring it with me to kill an alien clown,” Mike says. The cashier gives them a pointed look. Mike types a response to bill with a goofy grin spread across his face. “But do you want to meet them there, ‘cause I can’t remember the last time I ate and I’m starving.”

“I could eat, like, ten horses.” Richie gives the woman at the register a wrinkled and water stained twenty, and he doesn’t ask for change. “Let’s go feast like fucking kings, Mikey.”

The Doctor tells Eddie he needs stitches. Eddie tells Beverly that’s what he said, solidarity strikes again. 

“It’s a miracle that you weren’t exposed to tetanus,” the Doctor tells Eddie. 

“I’m well aware,” Eddie says. Bev stifles a laugh. He’s glad she went in with him. Even though he has a very sizable and painful reminder of the recent events, there is still a bubbling fear in him that he’s going to blink and his world will be stripped away from him again. Just figments he’ll always be chasing down. 

The doctor also says that she’s giving him pain medication. Eddie tells himself he’s going to flush it. He can’t do that now, not when he’s just got everything back. 

The room feels like it’s spinning just a bit, like it’s off it’s axis. Nothings quite felt like solid ground yet. Eddie thinks he’s still adjusting to Derry, or maybe it’s adjusting to him. 

Bev finds them in the cafeteria. She looks drained, but still gives them an honest smile, and pulls up a chair next to Ben. ”How long have you guys been here,” She asks.

“Twenty minutes tops,” Ben says all calm and sweet. “No need to worry.” 

“How’s Eddie,” Bill asks around a piece of chicken.

“He’s still got a stab wound in his cheek, But they’re stitching him up pretty soon. So I say that’s a positive.” Her tone goes colder, when she continues to say, “How was the station?”

“Hell,” Mike says. “But Richie’s not going to prison for murder, so that’s another positive.”

“Thank God. There’s a cop upstairs integrating Eddie,” Bev says, stealing a fry from Ben’s plate and quickly popping it in her mouth, like this is the most casual thing in the world. “He made me leave, so now I’m down here getting Eddie food that he won’t be allowed to eat, but I’m going to make him, even though he says he doesn’t trust hospital food.”

“It’s a hospital w-wouldn’t you t-trust it the m-m-most,” Bill says. 

“I’m glad Eddie’s still a lunatic, hasn't lost that charm yet,” Richie says smiling softly. Talking feels a little like forcing the words out around the lump in his throat. “Listen I’m getting full—"

“Rich h-half your food is s-s-still on y-your plate,” Bill says concerned.

“Like I said,” Richie says getting up and grabbing his tray. “I’m getting full. I’m gonna go walk around, stretch my legs. See ya guys.” And he doesn’t look back when they all say their sweet goodbyes, because Richie, as always, is a selfish asshole.

Richie waits outside Eddie’s room like a maniac, bouncing his leg and chewing the skin around his nails. He’s waiting for the pompous cop asshole to leave, because he knows he shouldn’t do any more incriminating shit, after he just lied to cops about literally murdering someone today (_ or is it already tomorrow? _). But he’s not going to think about that. 

Finally he watches the door open and a grouchy little round man in a uniform walk out, and Richie slips into the room. 

“Hey Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says poking his head into the room to see Eddie propped up in bed, a tad sweaty with a scowl on his face. It is not _ cute _, Richie tells himself. “How ya feeling?”

Eddie looks up and notices him, and Richie swore he saw a smile tug on his lips. _ Not cute. _

“Like shit,” Eddie says with an eye roll. “The nurse gave me new bandages, which _ I _ informed her how to put on properly, but the doctor applied a pain relief agent to my cheek, so I’ve been worse — What the _ fuck _is that thing?”

He follows Eddie’s gaze to the stuffed reptile in Richies hand. Oh yeah, he forgot about that. 

“A snake,” Richie says matter of factly. “I thought we could name it together. I like ‘Monty Python.’”

“It’s not at all anatomically correct,” Eddie says giving Monty Python a look. 

“It’s fucking rainbow Eds. I went for Show Stopper, not Killer Constrictor. Next time you’re withering away in the ICU, I'll get a real snake. How’s that?”

“I’m not withering,” Eddie just about pouts.

Richie sits down next to him on one the visitor chairs and fights every urge to take his hand. He is not going to pull any of that shit. He pushes down the wanting feeling coursing through his chest. He is a grown man who can be mature about his feelings, and not force anything onto his friend, his very _ married _ friend. 

“Jesus, Rich,” Eddie suddenly says. “Did you not change? You smell like actual garbage.” 

“It’s not garbage. It’s clown shit,” Richie replies. _ And not Eddies blood _ , Richie keeps reminding himself. _ Thank God, it’s not his blood _.

“Whatever it is, it’s putrid,” Eddie says, without any heat behind the words. 

Then something dawns over Eddie. He starts rubbing his eyes and taking deep breaths. It looks like the world just settled on Eddies shoulders, and he’s now just grappling with the weight. Richie thinks about reaching out and smoothing his brow, as though erasing those lines will take away every ounce of ache Eddie has to carry. 

“I need to call Myra,” Eddie sighs.

“Who?” But Richie knows, he knows like how you know what it means when the police show up at your door asking if they can come in. Somewhere deep in his mind he needs Eddie to say it, to place the nail in his coffin. He needs to hear it or he’ll do something fucking awful. Richie thinks he might be a masochist. 

“My wife,” Eddie tells him, not meeting his eyes. Richie thinks he should be grateful. 

“Is she on her way here,” Richie asks.

“I haven't told her about Bowers. She doesn’t even know I'm in Maine,” he sounds like he’s gasping for air. He runs a hand through his hair, over and over and over. “If she finds out I was in the hospital she won’t— she won’t _ react well _.” 

Richie doesn’t like the way he says the last bit, all sharp in his mouth, coming out like cut glass. It sounds familiar. He feels his hand turn to a fist. 

“What are you going to tell her when she sees the giant hole in your cheek,” Richie asks trying to sound casual.

“I don't know,” he says as scrubs a hand over his face, and then winces when he accidently applies pressure to his wound. “I need to go back to New York.”

“But do you want to?” Richie hates how thick his voice sounds, like he’s peeling back his skin. 

“What does that even mean? I can’t stay in Derry you— _ all _ of you know that it’s eating us from the inside, Rich.” 

“But you don’t have to go to New York.” 

“Where can I possibly go, Richie?” 

Eddie looks to him now, with eyes Richie could swim in. Richie knows he’s begging him to understand. Richie thinks this his chance to say something, anything to make Eddie look at him like he did back in the cavern, before It ripped everything away, Eddie smiling with that breathless kind of joy. _ Come with me to L.A., _ Richie wants to scream, _ I’ll buy you a nice new mattress, you can change all the furniture, I'll let you pick the groceries. Please just be near me. _

“Wherever you want.” And the world resets and Richie Tozier is back again a coward.

“Rich,” Eddie says this soft, almost sacred. “I have a life.”

“Yeah,” Richie sighs, aches, mourns, whatever you want to call the absence in his chest. “I’ll let you call her.” 

The hospital keeps Eddie well into the morning, the Losers don’t even think about leaving.

They take turns sitting with Eddie and eventually watching him sleep. Around three in the morning, Mike and Bill pass out in the waiting chairs, while Ben sits peacefully in Eddie’s room. Richie just paces and paces through the ICU’s corridors, letting the false memories of Eddie bleeding out seep back into his mind, the fun house images of the day gnaw at him. He used to have bit about guilt, back in his twenties when he used to play at hokey comedy clubs trying to catch any sort of traction, when he used write his own stuff. He had talked about what it would be like to wake up one morning without guilt, without the constant nagging feeling of shame, and how fucked everyone around him would be. He then went on to say that guilt is what grounded us to the earth, to reality. That if gravity was made out of anything, it was guilt. He made it funny sure. _ What’s levity without tragedy _, is what he used say about his stuff. He probably still had pieces of Derry rattling around in him then, Richie thinks. 

He accidentally finds Bev staring intently at contents held inside a vending machine. He’s about to just turn around and go back to his weirdo hospital creeping, when Bev asks him what he wants.

“I'm alright,” Richie shrugs.

“No, no, no,” she says holding up a finger, “You’ve barely eating anything today. So let me try to fill you up with absolute garbage food that’ll probably destroy your insides, it’s the least I can do.” She flashes him a sly smile. The same sly smile that Richie has fallen helplessly for again and again. Beverly Marsh was going to be the death of him, or possibly just be his guardian angel.

“Okay,” he says.

“What do you want,” she asks jumping back to the machine.

“Uhh, I’ll take a twix.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Oh, look at me ‘Miss Priss Beverly’, on my high horse of precious vending machine treasures getting— fucking trail mix Bev, honestly?”

He watches in disgust as she picks up a small bag of trail mix out, like that's a perfectly normal thing to do.

“Fuck off,” she says without any malice. “I like the peanuts, Ben likes the raisins, and we split the M&Ms. Also that is not at all what I sound like.”

“Is too.”

That sends a childish spark through them and they burst into a fit of laughter, powered either by exhaustion or just the fact that they can. The giggles soon dissolve into a warm comfortable silence. 

Bev breaks it first surprisingly.

“I’m actually going to steal Ben from Eddie for a bit. Would you mind taking over watching sleeping beauty?”

“Well I—”

“Please, with a cherry on top?”

She says the last bit nonchalantly, but there’s something behind her eyes that Richie can’t quite decipher. He wonders if she knows about him. About all the shit he can’t even say out loud yet. He doesn’t know if her knowing would destroy him or set him free. He doesn’t really care to find out. 

“Alright, alright,” Richie says. “I’ll go babysit, so you can eat guinea pig food with your new boy toy, and you can fall asleep holding hands. Or whatever people in love do.”

Bev snorts.

He’s starting to make his way to the doorway, when something tugs at his chest. He raps his knuckles on the wall trying to come off casual, he was never good at being sincere. Had to let something distract him before he was ever honest, something to break the fall.

“Um Bev, I’m, um well,” he doesn’t start off strong, _ but he’s trying okay _. “I'm really happy for you, and Ben, I mean. Like you have no idea how much I’m proud of you, both of you. Also like we haven’t begun to touch on the fact that he looks like a fucking G.Q. model, and you know he’s going to be a very sensual lov—” 

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev says, but she’s smiling at him. She walks over and presses a kiss to his temple. “I can’t wait for you to find your peace, you deserve it just as much as any of us.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just looks at her with what he hopes is a smile and finds his way to Eddie’s room.

Eddie wakes to an awfully sore back, a massive crik in his neck, and a throbbing cheek. He also wakes up to a softly snoring Richie, sleeping across from him on a cheap hospital chair, with his glasses pushed into his hair, and resting his head on Eddie’s bed. Something warm pools in Eddie’s chest and he makes a point not to pay it any attention. He doesn’t remember drifting to bed, or ever feeling like sleeping. Eddie thinks he hasn’t dreamed sense Derry, and he knows that’s probably a good thing.

Eddie is about the get up to piss, when he feels an arm reach out for him. He looks down to see Richie grasping tightly onto Eddie’s wrist, with his eyes squeezed shut. Eddie feels paralyzed, too afraid to move. Then Richie shoots his eyes open and he starts to breathe heavy. He shakes himself awake and he notices his grip on Eddie, and immediately drops it. Eddie tries not to think about how much colder he feels without it.

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie says pushing himself up and awake. “Weird dream.” There is something icy behind his words, but Eddie doesn’t push it.

“It’s fine,” Eddie tells him. They’ll drop this like how they drop everything. They’ll skirt around each other for a second, then laugh like they always do. They are good at laughing. “When was the last time you slept in a bed?”

“When I was at your mom’s last night. Though, come to think about it, we didn’t do much sleeping,” Richie says, sleep still in his voice and words coming out lazy.

“You’re gonna need a chiropractor,” Eddie says. “You’re way too old to be pulling this shit.” He waves a dramatic hand at Richie and the hospital chairs.

“I live in L.A., I’m practically drowning in weirdo practicians. I’m sure I’ll find someone to through crystals at me to help align my chakras and my back will feel better than it has in fifteen years.”

It’s not hard, so much as strange, to picture Richie in L.A.. Eddie thinks of him probably holed up in a glitzy apartment painted some hideous color like moss green. Thinks of Richie selling out shows in big city theatres, wearing clothes that someone else picked out for him. Richie ushering through crowds, dodging paparazzi, rushing through his city. Richie has always moved fast. Actually Richie just has always been _ moving _. L.A. fits right on him.

Eddie had watched one of his shows once. It was entirely on accident while channel surfing with Myra. He only caught sight of Richie for a second before Myra switched the channel, but that was enough. He wouldn’t call it recognition, it was more like the feeling of muscle memory, like some untouched part of him was moving again. He practically begged Myra to go back. She begrudgingly complied, then complained the whole way through calling it grotesque and far too vulgar for Eddie’s ears. Eddie didn’t even like it himself, but he was still drawn to it waiting for something to click. He thought he had must’ve heard this bit before, but the whole thing just sounded _ off _ , like someone had changed the lyrics to his favorite song. That night on his computer, he opened a private tab (because each week Myra went through his search history to make sure he was being _ good _), and watched dozens of clips of Richie’s stand up. He hated it, the jokes were tired, obnoxious, and overdone. But he still watched more with growing fascination. He thought he’d forget about it all in the morning, but something kept drawing on him. So Eddie made a monthly routine. He’d lock himself up in a room with his laptop and shitty earphones, and quietly watched Richie Tozier’s awful standup, waiting for the burning in his chest to make sense. 

“Dude, since when did you have radio in your room,” Richie asks pulling Eddie out of his head.

Eddie looks over to the small table that is kept in the corner of his room, where a small portable radio is resting coated in soft morning light. He’s not surprised they keep radios in Derry’s sorry excuse for a hospital.

“I don’t fucking-- _ Hey _ . Wait, Richie do _ not _ turn on that goddamn radio.”

But he’s already getting up to start playing with the buttons. Static starts to echo out of the tin box and carry through the room. It bounces of the walls and makes Eddie’s head pound. “Richie, cut that shit out.”

“Hold on i’m finding a station,” Richie says not letting go of the nobs once.

Finally some actual music starts to ring out of the radio, something slow and twangy. “Is that fucking Conway Twitty?”

“How should I know,” Richie says, but lets it play.

It is in fact Conway Twitty, Eddie even knows the song. Richie doesn’t pay it any attention, though, just plops right back down his chair, absently tapping his foot. Richie likes music fine, but what Eddie knows he likes more is sound. When there’s some noise humming in the background Richie is better, just a little more at ease. He doesn’t have to focus as much when something else is ringing in his ear as he speaks. Eddie is quickly overcome with flashes of memories sat up in Richie’s old bedroom with muffled punk rock playing out of his speakers that had always been somehow broken. Eddie didn’t think he’d ever miss the _ Circle Jerks _.

(Twitty quitely croons, _Deep in your smile there's a quiet, soft desire_.) Eddie wants to punch something.

“How did the call with the wife go,” Richie asks silencing Eddie thoughts.

Eddie sighed. “It went.” 

The call he had with Myra was over two hours long. She didn’t believe him at first (_ she never believes him at first _). She had googled the Doctor’s name to prove that she worked there in Derry. Eddie then had to call down his Doctor to tell Myra that he was actually stabbed. She was not too pleased that his Doctor was a women, Eddie had informed that he didn’t have a choice. Explaining the stab wound itself was another fiasco. He had originally told her before leaving that he had a family emergency, she had asked why she wasn’t invited, he never did give her an answer. He tried his best to explain Bowers, and she questioned every detail. They went in circles of arguing, of Eddie begging and Myra allowing him things. 

“Thankfully she’s not coming up here,” Eddie tells him. “But I had to promise her that the moment I’m out of the ICU I'm getting on a plane back to New York.”

“Jesus. That’s--” But he doesn’t finish.

“Yeah,” Eddie says because he knows.

_ (How strong is a band of gold? Is it strong enough to hold _?) 

“I’m gonna miss this town, in a weird codependent way,” Richie says, eyes a little far away.

“No you’re not,” Eddie laughs.

“Eh, Your probably right,” Richie says now looking at Eddie. “But I’m going to miss what we made it.” 

The hospital releases eddie the same day, with brand new and sparkling stitches, as Richie had called them. Eddie is still probably going to go to a real hospital back in New York to make sure he hasn’t contacted a blood infection. Eddie thinks there’s probably shit worse than blood poisoning wrong with all of them, though. He knows how Derry can make someone go sour (_ you get out of town before it can catch up to you, you run like hell because it doesn’t stop _). But part of him hopes because they all have gone through it together, they’re going to make it out whole this time, or close to it.

They make their goodbyes and it feels wrong to split so easily again. They are all scared, he knows this. The town line is just about screaming at them. They have to leave, staying in Derry, Eddie thinks would be the death of them. It feels wrong leaving Mike, but he promises them that he’ll be gone soon. They have exchanged numbers, and have even made a little group chat, where they promise to text that they remember. Eddie’s never been a part of a group chat. Come to think of it, Eddie hasn’t really had friends since the Losers.

Eddie tries not to linger. Tries not to focus on Bev’s soft smile or Ben’s tight grip, not on Mike’s wet eyes, or Bill’s laugh. He tries not think about how Richie keeps looking at him like that, like he's just remembered something awful.

_ This isn’t goodbye, _ he tells himself.

Richie drives.

It’s just him and roads and trees, and soon he’ll be on a plane and gone. He’ll be home and not running for his life. He doesn’t think about stopping or pulling over. He doesn’t even realize where he is until he’s halfway out the car and facing the bridge. Derry always had that way about it, held its grip into them, pulled them where it wanted them. 

His eyes find the letters and his heart lurches. He breaks down and cries. His first tears since Derry. His first tears in decades, he thinks. 

He loves Eddie. He knows that. He lets that thought linger there on it’s own for a second, let’s hold its worth. He loves Eddie so much that he thinks he might die under its weight. He loves him sickeningly and unparalleled, his hands tremble just thinking about it. Love does not exist in grand gestures, for Richie. It was there when Eddie had licked the ketchup off his thumb. It was there when Eddie gave Richie his first ever comic two days before is birthday as a surprise. It was there when they found each other shaking and crying in the early hours of the morning, promising that they were still somehow there. It is here, where Richie had carved their names into the wood of the bridge. Not unlike cascading droplets that make up niagara, pathways on mountain sides built from past avalanches. It is gradual. It is not born. His heart, in spite of everything, adores Eddie.

So Richie pulls his pocket knife out, and retraces those lines again, with the same cold burning under his skin he felt all those years ago, because, depiste everything, Richie’s heart has never faltered. 

He leaves Derry after that, able to tell it goodbye.


	2. restart and reboot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stay tuned for airports, chain restaurants, bickering, and rubix cubes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay really thought this was gonna be just two chapters, but now that doesn't look like the case, so hopefully i can finish this thing sooner than later, because i do very much have an ending. also sorry for a bit of a wait for this chapter and that it's not very long, if i didn't split this thing up it wld be like 20 odd thousand words. thank u for reading!

Eddie and Richie are not on the same flight, or at the same terminal, they don’t even share a boarding time. No, Richie’s flight to L.A. is at 1:45, while Eddie’s New York flight is at 3:30. So, Richie isn’t expecting the angry little bobbing head that he sees while he’s standing stagnant in the line to TSA to be anyone other than a pissy business jerk off, but then he’s flashed with the bright white gauze that’s pressed on the man’s face.

“Eddie,” Richie half yells. He then follows it with a chorus of, “Eddie! Hey, Eddie!” He adds some snapping and clapping for good measure. The rows of people between them all start to look in Eddie’s direction. Now that catches his attention.

“Richie,” Eddie asks mortified and with wide eyes. 

He’s wearing nice jeans and a bright polo, because of course Eddie is one to dress up for the airport. Richie usually goes with a baggy hoodie and sweats, but all he had left in his suitcase was a black pair of jeans and one of his patterned shirts, so he’s looking halfway decent. 

“Get over here,” Richie says while motioning him over with his arms.

“No,” Eddie snaps a bit too loudly. Then says much quieter through gritted teeth, “What is  _ wrong _ with you?”

“Eddie, get over here. Now.” Then Richie turns to people around them, knowing exactly what he’s doing as he says, “So sorry for the commotion. We’re in the same party, but you know, we got a Tardy Timothy over there.”

Eddie rolls his eyes so hard, Richie is worried that it hurts. But he still starts his way to Richie, always too afraid disrupt any social standing. 

“That’s not even a real saying,” Eddie says once he’s standing next to Richie.

“Gets the point across,” Richie shrugs.

“I can’t believe you had me just cut in line,” Eddie says as he starts to rub his temple. Richie notices that he has a small scar on the back of his hand. He doesn’t think its from when Richie knew him, and that makes his stomach twist up. 

He keeps remembering that they all had lives without each other. That there has been life time between them, where they were without each other. Eddie grew and matured in ways Richie was never there for or could possibly comprehend. The world went on without there being a  _ them _ . They are essentially strangers, in the grand scheme of things.

But strangers don’t have the ability to make Richie’s chest swarm with want as  heavy as cement drying. 

“We are not in grade school anymore, Richie,” Eddie cuts into his thoughts.

“Stop being so over dramatic, and start being grateful,” Richie says. “You have a flight change?”

“No.”

Richie takes a long pause, a long type of pause that would have comedic pay off if he was on stage right now. But it’s wasted on Eddie and frankly everyone else in the TSA line, so he asks calmly as he can muster, “Eddie, it is, quite literally, four hours before your flight.”

“So,” Eddie says tone deaf to the whole situation.

“So? That’s fucking insane.”

“Do not talk to me about insane when your flight is in less than an hour and your still security,” Eddie crosses his arms and raises an indignant brow.

“And then I’m out of security in twenty minutes and straight on my flight and it’s smooth sailing from there,” Richie says gesturing wildly around them, to somehow further prove his point.

“You are unbelievable.”

When they finally get to the X-ray scanners Richie plops his stuff down on the conveyor belt quickly taking out the required items, he then shovels off his jacket and kicks off his shoes. While he’s doing this, Eddie is slowly and meticulously wiping every surface around them with a flimsy baby wipe.

“Eddie,” Richie sighs. “The fuck man?”

Eddie doesn’t look from what he’s doing, but he does snap back, “Richie, do not even start me on all the hazards of airports. Airlines are formidable carriers of the common cold. It is 113 times more likely to be transmitted on a plane than on the ground. You have to look at all the factors, dude, close quarters, shared air, extremely low cabin humidity. Like even right now, if your feet are sweaty, you can get a bacterial or fungal infection. Think about how fucking dirty this floor is and people are walking all over it. Who knows what the fuck is on there. I had a coworker who went to the airport, took all the necessary safety percussions and you know what happened? He came back with lice, fucking  _ head lice _ , Rich.”

“Isn’t he a riot,” Richie says to the security guard behind the X-rays, she doesn’t even look up.   
  


After they go through the fiasco that is TSA, they sit on a small bench retying their shoes. Eddie is reorganizing his carry-on, when Richie perks up just a bit. 

“Do you want to get lunch, because I sure as hell do,” he gives Eddie a goofy looking smile, one that looks thirty years younger than the rest of him, and nudges him with his elbow. “How’s Burger King sound?”

“Richie, that isn’t real food,” Eddie says getting up to look at one of the standing maps.

“So what? It’s finger licking good,” Richie says joining him.

“That’s KFC.”

“I'm surprised you even know what fried food is. God, you’d love LAX, the place is brimming with health food schlock. You could binge yourself on all the organic shit and body cleansers your little heart des— Oh shit.”

“What,” Eddie says following his gaze to the board of flight times.

“Looks like my flight got delayed,” Richie lets out a whistle and clasps a tight hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Seems like you’ll be stuck with me for another hour and a half, Eduardo. Aren’t you a lucky girl?”

“What dumb fuck pilot do I have to shoot for this.”

They decide on Chilis, because they have burgers (for Richie), and you can google their health codes (for Eddie). 

They are crammed in a little booth, that’s hideously lit by an overhanging decorative light. Their legs keep knocking together, and Eddie makes a point not to say anything. None of it is helping distract Eddie from his throbbing cheek, which is no longer just a dull pain but now a full on ache. 

“Where the fuck is everyone else,” Richie asks around a full face of fries, completely ignorant to Eddie’s peril. “Like we can’t be the only two Losers flying out?”

“Bev and Ben are taking a road trip back to Ben’s place,” Eddie says muffled with his face rested in arms. “Bill’s staying one more night, has to do with something Mike wanted to show him.”

Then another shooting pain courses threw him, and he reluctantly lets out a groan as he buries his face further into the crook of his arm.

“What the fuck’s your deal, man? You look like your gonna pass out. You didn’t get any of those special airport diseases, did you?” And he’s laughing, the asshole.

“I have a stitched up stab wound in my face, asswipe,” Eddie bites out, now white knuckling the table.

“Don’t you have pain meds,” Richie asks, but he doesn’t sound annoyed, just something close to concerned.

“Not taking them.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I flushed them.” 

He prays Richie doesn’t ask any questions. The same way he hasn’t asked questions about the three beers Richie has had over the course of their meal.

Eddie thinks about the rows of pills held in his medicine cabinet and the ones stuffed in his glove compartment back home. He lists off their names in his head, over and over. His mother’s voice ringing in his ears, _ Eddie you have to take your medicine, you have to be safe. _ He feels like he’s underwater. He feels like screaming until his throat bleeds.

“Well eat your fucking salad, so you can take some advil,” Richie says, cutting through his thoughts, with something soft creeping into his voice.

Richie was never one to fuss, that was Eddie’s job. He showed his comforts in other ways. 

As Eddie takes a reluctant bit of his salad, something similar to recognition starts to pound in Eddie’s head.  
  


“Don’t you fucking dare, Richie,” Eddie yelped right as Richie threw himself into Eddie. They fell back into the cold, harsh ice pile below them. Richie layed on top of Eddie piling all of his weight on top of him and white hot panic ran threw Eddie’s body.

“Did you hear a crack,” Eddie said pushing back against Richie. “I swear to God, Trashmouth, if I broke something I’m going to have you hung.”

“I already beat you there,” Richie laughed back, gripping onto his crotch. He then leaned down close to Eddie’s ear, breathing hot, “Just ask your mom.”

“Ugh, gross. Beep, Beep, Richie. Get the fuck off of me.”

Richie pushed himself off of Eddie, and Eddie shivered without his warmth on him. He mindlessly reached out, kind of wanting it back, but immediately pushed the thought away. Eddie sat up from the solid snow and wiped away the wet ice coating his back.

“Shit, dude, we barely left a mark,” Richie whined while examining their landing spot.

“I told you we couldn’t make snow angels, dipshit,” Eddie said, shoving Richie for good measure. “The snow’s old as shit, dude. It's practically ice—”

Then Eddie was slipping into the pile of said ice, face breaking his fall. 

He sat up quickly and ignored the embarrassingly high pitched scream he let out as he fell. Despite the cold of the snow, his nose started to burn something fierce. Eddie placed two gentle fingers to his nose, and felt something wet. He looked down at his hand to see a red, thick liquid coating his fingers.

“Oh my god, I’m bleeding,” Eddie said at a whisper, just to himself, not quite realizing the information before him. Then like an avalanche, reality dawned on him. “Holy fuck, my Moms gonna kill me! Shit, dude, shit I—”

Richie smacked a hand over Eddies mouth, which kind of hurt more than his nose. “Hey, Eddie, shh, shh. It’s alright, you’re going to be fine. Listen, I got you, Eds.”

He took his hand away, and Eddie noticed that his blood was coating Richie’s hand. But Richie didn’t seem to care, didn’t even flinch. Something about that made something flutter in Eddie’s chest. 

“Don’t call me Eds,” he said instead of paying attention to the weird feeling that radiated through him. “And it’s not alright, my Mom’s gonna wrap me in bubble wrap and never let out in the snow again.”

“You’re mom won’t even know it happened,” Richie said waving a dismissive hand.

“Yeah, she is. I’m bleeding, Richie.”

“Not when I’m done with you. C’mon, I’ll take you back to my place, and get you all cleaned up, good as new and still cute as ever.” He swung an arm over Eddie’s shoulders, and pulled him close, knocking their heads together. Eddie tried not to wince. 

“Richie do you even know how to do any of that,” Eddie asked, relaxing slightly against Richie, grateful for the warmth. Richie started to walk, leading them to the direction out of the woods. 

“No, but you can tell me how to do it.”

“Rich—”

“Eddie, just let me clean you up. We can do it as a team, it’ll be fun. It can’t get any worse than it is.”   


_ But it can _ , Eddie thought. It can get infected and his nose could be amputated, then he couldn’t smell anything ever again and he’d look like a total freak. Richie wouldn’t want to hang out with him if he was a total freak. But they were only there because of Richie in the first place. His bloody nose really was Richie’s fault, so what if he wanted to fix it. Eddie knew how to clean wounds right, his Mommy taught him, so maybe he could teach Richie. Maybe he could let Richie help him. “Okay, but just this once.”

“Really,” Richie asked and goofy grin split across his face. “Alright Dr. K, there’s a new sheriff in town.”

“But no British Guy, I will literally walk home,” Eddie snapped feeling a headache already coming on. But he smiled, too, despite the pain.

“You got it,” Richie said and held onto Eddie’s shoulder tight.

  
Eddie blinks away the haze of the memory and looks around, slowly processing where he is. Richie is still there, eating something that once used to look like a brownie. He is left with a full body buzz that has a dull pain to it that he’s sure isn’t from his stitches. 

Eddie walks Richie to his gate ten minutes before he’s supposed to board. Richie bought a first class seat because it was the only one left in such short notice ( _ he also deserved some goddamned comfort after the last few days _ ), so he’s one of the first to get on the plane.

“Do you have your boarding pass,” Eddie asks once their standing just outside the boarding line.

“Of fucking course I — ” 

“I was just checking.”

“Dick,” Richie says while pulling out his boarding pass from his wallet. “I think this is the part where you’re supposed to tell me you love me so much you ran through an airport for me.”

“You wish, asshole.”

They stare at each other,  _ He’s got the same eyes _ , Richie thinks. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or his face, or himself.

Looking at Eddie feels like being thirteen again, shaking and afraid.  _ This is it _ , his head is screaming at him,  _ you’re never going to hear that voice again or recognize that laugh. He’s going back to his wife and his nice little life without you. This is the last time you have him.  _ The pittering of Richie’s heart racks against his ribcage, electric need flows through his body, looking at Eddie makes him heartsick.

Life without Eddie was hell, but he hadn’t known why. He didn’t understand what the emptiness that pitted itself into his chest was, had never questioned why life was devoid of meaning. Why he went through everything with half feeling.

But it all came flooding back the moment he saw Eddie walk in to the room, rambling and frantic, carved out by the deep red lights of the Jade of the Orient. It felt like Richie's heart split right open, blooming into something raw and untouched. It wasn’t memories at first, it was solely feeling, soley warmth. A chorus of  _ love, love, love, _ flooded his body in burning resemblance.

That feeling hasn’t gone away since.

Then somewhere in the back of his brain Richie’s getting flashes of hot summer air and slit palms,  _ Eddie’s palm _ , and it's in his, fitted almost perfect even with the cast.

He knew Eddie needed to get home, his mom would just about scalp him if he was home late one more time that summer. So Eddie smiled a goodbye, and Richie swore that one was just for him. Then he was gone, just a flick of his wrist and he was off.

But Richie didn't wave back. He fumbled with his glasses, eyes trained on Eddie’s back, memorizing it’s curves and bends, moving like burning metal. He could only smile, a hunters smile; one that could only exist while no one was looking. Only able to watch Eddie leave him. That’s it, isn't it, after everything, Richie watched.

“Listen, Eds,” Richie says once he’s back to his body.

“This isn’t goodbye,” Eddie cuts in, something determined filtering over his face.

“What,” Richie asks, and he feels his grip on his carry on tighten.

“This isn’t a goodbye, so don’t make it one, Tozier.” Eddie gives him a half smile, something barely there, but it still makes Richie heart lurch in his chest. Eddie takes a half step forward and grabs hold of Richie’s shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. There’s something dark in his eyes that Richie can’t quite read. 

He thinks about how easy it would be to close the space between them, to lean down to give Eddie a gentle kiss, just a brush of the lips, because that’s all Richie would need. How simple an  _ I love you _ would sound on his tongue, and how true,  _ Please stay with me _ , would be.

“This isn’t a goodbye, Eds,” Richie says instead, because he knows he can’t do anything else.

**SEVEN MONTHS LATER**   
  


The clock somewhere reads 5:27 P.M.. Richie is sat, legs outstretched in the massive cushion that is his sofa, balancing his computer on his lap, staring at a very blank word document. 

He’s been staring at it for the past three hours. Instead of typing anything out, he takes a sip of his rum and coke (the third of the afternoon) trying to summon some liquid force of inspiration. He also has his record player (something he bought eight or so years ago for the rustic look, but has helplessly fallen into seriously using) blasting, because some old comedian buddy of his once told him, _That the only good shit I have ever produced was when I was blasting Liszt_. Richie doesn’t know who the fuck Liszt is, but he does know who the _The_ _Strokes_ are and _Room on Fire_ has been rounding itself dead on his player all afternoon. 

He’s been trying to write something original since Derry, because almost dying and having everything you care about being that close to being stripped away is a pretty big eye opener. For twenty seven years Richie has done jack shit, so he’s trying to change that. His agent has told he has not been successful. 

Life after Derry has been an adjustment to say the least. 

The first night he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t even close his eyes, because there still was that deep black rattling fear, that with one blink he’s never going to be able to remember his friends faces. Ricocheting panic swarmed his every thought. He took turns worrying between:  _ this isn’t real, you’re still there in the dark and Eddie’s still bleeding out _ ,  _ and you can’t do shit _ and  _ the moment you close your eyes they’re gone, they will only be a passing thought, just outlines of possible memories, you’re going to lose them all. _

He paced around his apartment, watched TV reruns, flipped through cooking books he had as decorations, anything to focus on that wasn’t demon clown monster magic. 

Then he got a text at 4:12 in the morning from Ben that told him,  _ Day one after Derry, we still remember you guys. And we still love you. _

And for the first time since It, since Derry, since relearning the meaning of fear and dread and loss, Richie was able to breathe.

Things have gotten easier since then. 

They call to talk and text the group chat that Bev has titled  _ Capital L Losers _ . Bev and Ben spent time living in a boat for a bit, but they eventually went back to Ben’s place in Chicago, they even have a fucking dog, talk about domesticity. Bill returned to keep up with his books and make his movies, he also let them know that he was getting a divorce, proving again that Derry had a special a way of truly catasrophically fucking with their lives. Mike has been traveling across the country, sending them hundreds of photos every week with cute little messages, being finally out of Derry for the first time in his life has him just about bursting with freedom. Eddie had said that he went home and work was going smoothly, and that conversation ended there. None of them pushed, but Bev had sent Eddie some messages that Richie couldn’t quite decipher the meaning of. Richie had told himself not to worry.

Richie can’t help but try and picture Stan in all of this. How he would be content in Atlanta and happily in love with his wife. They would all come down to visit and he’d show them all his bird books and trinkets. His business would be constantly growing, while he still would keep rooted as ever. God, what Richie would give to see how that smile had matured. Peace would’ve fit to Stan like balm to a burn. 

Richie’s heart pangs with guilt. He stops trying to think about Stan as much. 

The Losers are moving, for the first time maybe ever. All of them growing upwards to the sun like stretching tree vines. Lives full of progress and new discoveries. They were learning how to live pass hell, it's a good look on them.

Well all of them, except Richie, still ever so fucking stubborn.

He starts to chew on his ice, because he thinks if he tries hard enough it will feel like glass.  _ That’ll excite him, start the blood stream flowing _ , he thinks dully _ . _ Richie is ready to start picking keys off his laptop, when he feels his phone start to vibrate.

He doesn’t recognize the caller ID, so he lets it ring. Being somewhat famous has made Richie very well aware of who or what can find his number.

Then it buzzes again. And again. The number calls him eleven times.

So Richie gives in.

“Trashmouth incorporated, how may I—”

“ _ Richie, please shut the fuck up _ ,” a muffled Eddie spits into the phone. “ _ This thing costs me twenty cents a minute and only takes fucking coins. So just let me talk for once. Can you be at LAX in, like, six hours? _ ” 

“I, uh— I guess,” Richie answers absentmindedly, not quite processing the words Eddie is barking into his ear. “Why?”

“ _ To pick me up, asshole _ ,” Eddie says. 

Richie can practically hear his eye roll. He’s about to snap something back, when Eddie’s words catch up to him. “ _ Wait, why are you at— _ ”

“ _ Listen, I gotta go, man. See you at the airport in six hours. Find me at terminal eight, okay?  _ Terminal eight. _ Bye. _ ” 

The line goes dead. 

Since they’re final departure at the airport, Richie and Eddie’s communication has been rather limited. They send the odd text to the group chat, smile at each other while the Losers collectively facetime, but nothing ever just between the two of them. Richie hasn't called Eddie because — well because he hasn’t. 

He talks to Bev nearly every week (which sequencely involves Ben) even if it is just to laugh about nothing or whine about everything. He calls the others too, because he’s trying his damnedest to not be an utter fuck up.  He’d be a liar if he said it hadn’t crossed his mind, maybe a few hundred times, but typing out Eddie’s digits just felt too weighted. Having Eddie’s voice just to himself felt too dangerous.

_ Well, this might as well happen _ . 

Richie shows up to the airport ten minutes early. He’s about to pat himself on the back for that, when he sees that Eddie is already standing at the curb. 

He’s stood surrounded by, of course, a sea of luggage and he’s wearing a baggy navy blue hoodie thrown over a bright yellow polo. He looks like he should be working on a cruise ship, and Richie tells himself that it is not adorable, it’s embarrassing. He also notices that Eddie is no longer wearing his bandage, which makes something deep in Richie go soft.

As he pulls up Eddie stalks over to his car, face turned down in a sour expression. He makes a motion for Richie to roll down the window. “There you are. Fuck, I’ve been out here for nearly forty minutes. I could’ve been mugged, Richie.”

“No, you couldn’t have, Eds. No one would want to so much as  _ touch _ you when you’re standing out here looking like America's Next Top American Psycho, with your weirdly bright polo and face scar,” Richie says flicking Eddie’s hand that’s resting on his window. He’s about to go on a tangent about how Eddie has literally stabbed a guy and killed an  _ alien, _ and it’d be a real shame if some junky with knife was the one to finally take him out, but then Eddie is walking away and grabbing his stuff to shove into Richie’s trunk.

“Also,” Richie yells to him out the window. “How the fuck was I supposed to know that you’ve been here for forty minutes? You didn’t call me.” Eddie slams the trunk door in a way that Richie thinks is intentional. 

“I don't have a phone, jackass,” Eddie says swinging open the passenger side door. He settles himself next to Richie with a sigh. “Why did you think I was using a pay phone earlier?” 

“Why the hell don’t you have a phone, Eddie?” 

“It’s back in New York.”

“Okay, tell me if I’m being outlandish here, but I feel like it would’ve been a bit of an ingenious idea to, I don’t know, bring your phone with you on your cross country trip, but who am I to say. So, Eddie, please enlighten the lost. Why didn’t you care to bring your phone with you?”

“I'm getting a divorce.” 

_ Oh _ . 

Richie wasn’t expecting that one. Though it doesn’t quite answer his question, actually if anything it opens up more. He takes a minute. Then another.

“I'm, um, sorry,” he really doesn’t mean to say it like a question. 

Eddie puts his face in his hands and takes a long, ragged breath. “Oh, fuck off, Richie.” 

“No, no, I didn’t mean—”

“No, this is a—” Eddie pauses to run a hand through his hair, still not meeting Richie’s eyes. “It's a good thing, Rich. It’s been a long,  _ long _ time coming. You don’t need to say sorry. Actually,  _ please _ don’t.”

“Okay. Well then congratulations.”

“That’s not— you know what sure. Thanks, Rich.”

“Hate to be a stickler, but that still doesn’t explain why you don’t have a phone.”

“Myra took it.” There’s something in his voice that crawls under Richie’s skin, something sickeningly familiar. He feels his grip on the steering wheel tighten. 

“She took it ‘cause she thought that would make me listen,” Eddie continues, and his voice sounds wrecked. “She always finds something to keep me there when I’m thinking about leaving, something to tie me to her. She likes to keep me relaint. But I fucking had it, and I just needed to be gone, needed to be anywhere that wasn’t under her tight fucking grip. So I said fuck the phone, I guess. And I just left with everything I could carry.” 

Richie’s chest feels hollow, gutted out and replaced with something icy. Richie didn’t think it was possible to hate some he’s never met, but whatever is raging inside has long past proved himself wrong. 

He wants nothing more than to erase the dark cloud behind Eddie’s eyes and wipe away the lines on his face that are screaming something awful. Richie wants to build himself around Eddie, and become his security blanket. He wants swallow Eddie’s heartache.

But Richie isn’t allowed to do any of that. So what he settles for instead is a steady grip on Eddie’s shoulder, friendly as ever. Richie says, “Well good for you man. Fuck the phone.”

Eddie finally meets Richie’s eyes, and he gives him a look that strips Richie raw. It’s the same look Eddie had at the quarry, while they stood alone on top of the rocks, when Eddie had kept his hand on him for ages. 

Eddie’s eyes are searching. 

But Richie can’t let himself go there, can’t let Eddie see the dark shit bubbling just beneath the surface.

So Richie smiles, like nothing, and says, “Okay if i’m not out of here soon that women in the shocking yellow vest is going to have my head.” He then takes a quick moment to properly switch over into his British accent, “So, Eddie Spaghetti where are we off to?”

“It is too fucking late for British Guy, Richie,” Eddie says scrubbing a hand over his face, but he continues seriously, “But, uh, can we please get some food? I haven’t eaten since eight o’clock this morning.”

“You got it ol’ chap. Pip, pip, and tally ho, we’re off to supper.”

Richie takes them to Denny’s. Eddie of course throws a fit in the passenger seat. 

“Richie, I wanted food, not diner grease solidified,” Eddie snaps. 

“Eddie, this is the only place open in a ten mile radius where we are not going to get stabbed,” Richie sighs while pushing his glasses up to rub at his eyes. “Now please get your cute little ass out of my car, and into that fine establishment.”

“Fucking fine,” Eddie grumbles, but does indeed exit the vehicle.

When they are seated in a spacious booth, with two things of decaf coffee, Eddie orders something off of their health menu. It comes out both bone dry, yet concerningly soggy. 

“Dude, that looks like cat puke,” Richie says behind his cup of coffee.

“At least I didn't order a heart attack,” Eddie waves a flippant hand at Richie’s Grand Slamwich.

“Hey, don’t slam the Slamwich,” Richie says, with fake aghast. He then takes this ample opportunity to throw a jam packet that hits Eddie square on the nose. 

Eddie’s eyes go wide for a split second, before his face contorts into fiery rage, “Oh, you fucking started it—

“How’s everything tasting,” Their very obviously overworked and annoyed waitress says, interrupting their impromptu food fight.

Eddie’s cheeks burn bright red, as he says, “It’s great, thanks.” 

Richie asks her for more jam packets, and Eddie kicks him under the table.

They eat with only minor bickering, which is frankly next to a miracle.

“You got knew frames,” Eddie says after Richie orders a peanut butter milkshake.

“Yeah, a demon clown cracked the other pair. So I thought it might be a smart investment,” Richie says.

Eddie chuckles at Richie, despite himself. God, Richie didn’t realize how much missed the sound of that laugh. All airy and sweet, it could fill his every thought. There was a reason he chased after it so fervently as a kid. That smile could light him up for days.

Eddie folds up a straw wrapper, then flattens it back out. It's a kind of mindless act, Richie feels strange watching it.

“So, uh, do you wanna talk about it,” Richie blurts.

“Talk about what,” Eddie quirks a brow at him.

“Um, your divorce, dude.”

Eddie goes still, and he looks at Richie with questioning eyes. Richie thinks he looks a little like a cornered animal.

“What? God, no— I mean yes? I don’t know. What am I supposed to say,” Eddie sputters.

“Fuck if I know. Vent or grieve or- or- or something, Eds. I don’t know how any of this shit works. You’re well aware of how emotionally stunted I am, I’m just trying to give you, like, an outlet or some shit,” Richie says.

Eddie sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. “What am I supposed to say? It was bad and toxic and all the words you use to talk about relationships that end like this. She was awful to me and I was awful to her. But I was trapped in it, you know, and it took seeing you guys again and me almost fucking  _ dying _ , but I realized the shit show I was in. It was like I was back at my mom’s place all over again. I don’t think I even loved her, how  _ fucked _ is that?”

“Fucked, Eds.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says but he’s smiling at him.

They sit with each other for a moment, enjoying the quiet. Richie as per usual has to ruin that.

“So, why are you in L.A.,” Richie asks, drumming his fingers along the table.

“Uh,” Eddie pauses to take a sip of the coffee he has brought to his lips. “I told you, I’m getting divorced— well, technically the term is separated— ”

“No, shit. I mean, don’t you live in, like, New York? You are aware that you are in Sunny California right now,” Richie says, gesturing wildly around them.

“Yes, I am  _ aware _ of  _ that _ ,” He cuts himself off and scrunches his face up just a bit. For a second Richie swears that he’s thirteen again, working himself into a red kind of fire. He used to get a kind of heat that radiated off the walls. He was  a hot plate, when they were kids, bitter in the way the honeysuckle is bitter. When Eddie was burning, Richie craved.

Eddie  takes a steadying breath, holds out a flat hand infront of him, and continues, “Fuck, Richie, I just— needed a change of scenery.”

Richie thinks about when after their first battle with It, practically every corner of Derry reminded him of blood and screaming and hungry eyes. When he lay in bed, he would think about how much he wanted to kick down the walls of his room, and rebuild a whole new fucking house. A whole new life. “Yeah, I get that,” Richie says. 

Their waitress, who now Richie knows as Janis, comes over with their checks. “Have a good night, boys,” she says in a tone, somehow more barren than monotone. 

“So what are your plans after this,” Richie asks after signing his name with a big goofy smiley face.

“What do you mean what’re my plans,” Eddie says not looking up from his check.

“I mean where the hell am I driving you. Where’s your hotel?”

Eddie chews his lip and doesn’t quite meet Richie’s eyeline. “I, uh, didn’t book one.”

Richie drops his pen. “What? Eddie you plan your week around a dentist appointment.”

“You do not know that.”

“Well am I wrong?” 

“Shut up, _Christ_,” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose. “I thought that we could room together. Possibly. Just for a bit until I'm back on my feet. I didn't think you’d mind. I-I-I—”“It's okay, man, chill,” Richie says. 

Eddie has that caged look on him again, and Richie can’t fucking stand it. “Hey, breathe. You always have a place with me. Like, c’mon, what are friends for?” Richie has to form a smile around the last bit, but it’s all true. Fuck he’d by a house for Eddie if he could, build his whole life around him. Eddie makes giving easy.

“Uh, thanks, Rich,” Eddie says with something that's not quite a smile playing if his lips.

Richie feels himself relax for just a moment, and he lets himself savor his view of Eddie, and the fact that he’s sharing his shitty Denny’s table with him, that their feet keep brushing, that he’s breathing without a dug out hole in his chest, and that he’s looking at Richie with something warm in his eyes. 

The car ride to Richie’s apartment is an hour long. In that hour Richie somehow brakes the speed limit seven times, doesn’t use his hazards once, and nearly gives Eddie eleven panic attacks. 

The thing is, Eddie gets cars. He  _ trusts _ cars. He understands that, yes they are objectively dangerous, and yes they are capable of an immense amount of serious damage, but you can control cars.

He might not have had an A+ in physics junior year, like Richie had, but Eddie did love the class. He was obsessed with the fact that everything had a reason and an explanation. The world around him suddenly had a blueprint he could follow. You can predict the laws of physics. You can predict the laws of cars. 

He has a half there memory of Richie’s dad teaching Eddie how to drive. His mother had said that she couldn’t trust Eddie on the road, he was far too  _ delicate _ to ever get behind the wheel. Went had given him a pointed look and told him,  _ Now, that’s bullshit _ . He had also lent Eddie some of the car manuals he had around the house, and Eddie had read all of them over at least twelve times each. Having everything splayed out in front of him and explained in sparkling clarity, filled Eddie with something similar to relief. Everything had an explanation, everything made sense, there was no room for guess work. 

Now that all falls away once Richie is placed behind the wheel. The moment he jammed his key into the ignition, the risk analysis part of Eddie’s brain was firing on all cylinders. He’s sure Richie’s car has half moon shaped marks on the seats that were not there an hour ago, but it’s not like Richie would notice.

Cars are safe. Richie is another thing entirely.  
  


Once they are inside Richie’s apartment building, and crammed into an elevator, Richie presses the button for the top floor.

“Um, Richie, I think you accidently pressed the button for the penthouse,” Eddie says.

“Hardy-fucking-har, Eds,” Richie says while pulling out a key card. Then Eddie is hit with a Voice he hasn’t thought about in nearly thirty years, Richie’s rather atrocious Eddie impression. “Oh no, poor Richie accidentally hit the button for the expensive floor, which he most definitely can’t afford on his nonexistent salary plus benefits from being a remarkably unfunny comedian— Wait, you're not being serious, right?” He’s just about shooting daggers at Eddie. 

Okay so Eddie might’ve stuck a nerve, that is definitely his bad. “I just didn’t think that—”

“Okay, fuck  _ you _ , Eddie. Big shocker I get  _ paid _ , for my  _ job _ . Wild concept to wrap your head around, I know.”

“Alright. Fine, I’m sorry.” Then as soon as the sliding doors open he bites back, “Pretty shitty impression, though,  _ Mr. Comedian _ .”

“That’s not what your mom said last night,” Richie says stepping into his apartment, his  _ penthouse suite. _

“I seriously cannot comprehend that you get paid to be funny,” Eddie says following in Richie’s direction.

Eddie’s eyes scan the room taking in as many details as possible, trying to map out Richie’s life since Eddie knew him, looking for the pieces to whatever of Richie he’s missed out on. But what he’s faced with is a frankly boring apartment. 

It is a bit barren in decor and lacking any of the color that Eddie has intended on seeing. There is stuff, but the kind of stuff that you would expect in anyone’s place. A few paintings there, a simple knick-knack here, the odd novelty book over there, it is surprisingly un-Richie. Something about that makes Eddie’s chest twinge.

“Welcome to Casa Tozier,” Richie says with arms outstretched, now standing in the middle of his place. Eddie thinks he almost looks proud.

“It’s not what I expected,” Eddie says, dropping his backpack to the floor with the other luggage.   


“What the fuck does that mean,” Richie pouts crossing his arm over his chest.

“Nothing, Richie,” Eddie sighs, while running a hand over his face. “Not everything I say has to mean something, okay, dude?”

“Thats not a fucking answer.”

“Shut up.”

Richie’s face cracks into a shit eating grin. 

And then they’re laughing at each other, in that way that fills up the room with something airy and bright. Eddie finds himself feeling grateful that they have somehow, despite the huge fucking apartment suite and piles of suitcases and tired eyes, still slotted into familiarity. They can still fucking laugh. 

“Listen, I am way too fucking tired to give you a proper tour of the place,” Richie says and runs hand through his already messy hair. “So here, lemme show you to your room. But tomorrow I can give you a real five star show about where the silverware is and where I keep the spare towels. I promise you, Eds, you’ll be dazzled and amazed. Just you fucking wait.”

“I'm not expecting anything above three and a half stars.”

“Oh, how you wound me, Kaspbrak.”   
  


When they get to the guest room, which is now suddenly Eddie’s room, Richie raps his knuckles awkwardly on the door frame and says, “Um, my rooms down the hall, just knock if you need—”

“Actually, Richie,” Eddie says, voice coming out pitchy. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I, uh— can I use your bathroom?” 

“Why’s there something wrong with the guest bathroom? I swear it meets all of your health codes and regulations, like no one uses that thing. Like  _ no one _ .” Richie says in a panic. 

His brain starts doing somersaults trying to find all the reasons Eddie might protest against his guest bathroom,  _ black mold under the sink, dirty countertop that can lead to certain infections, the walls could carry espsotos, the shower curtain has a hole in it, the toilet seat hasn’t been wiped down properly. _

“No Rich, its fine. I just,” he pauses just for a second to find the right words, and says a little sheepish, “After Bowers, it's just been hard to use a bathroom totally alone. Still feels like someone’s watching.”

“Oh,” Richie says partially relieved, partially devastated. “So do you want me to sit in there with you or—”

“No,” Eddie hisses, cutting him off. “ _ Gross _ , Richie. I mean I just need you to stand outside of the bathroom. It helps to know that your there. Makes me feel safer.” 

Eddies fiddles with the hem of his shirt, not quite looking at Richie. He has a hesitant look on his face that turns Richie’s stomach. The words start to dawn on him now, and Richie’s heart blossoms with a feather soft feeling.  _ Safer _ .   
  


Richie sits on his bed, twiddling his fingers as he idly watches Eddie go through an extreme skincare routine in his master bathroom. 

Richie’s brain can’t quite process the situation yet. Eddie in his room. Eddie being weirdly domestic, while making Richie watch. Eddie making little weird noises that aren’t quite words. It feels like his whole body is buzzing, and his pulse just about jumps every time Eddie touches something of his. Despite the hurriedness of it all, Eddie takes gentle care of everything he uses. Every action steady and purposeful. Richie’s head feels like it’s swimming. Scratch that. He feels like he’s drowning.

“So what am I supposed to do Eds?”

“I don’t know, Richie,” Eddie says as he wipes away some cream on his face with one of Richie’s towels. “Just, like, be there and don’t leave. Make some noise. Dance around. Sing for fuckssakes. I don’t care.”

So Richie starts to hum, soft and hestant. But because Richie wasn’t programmed with a stop bottom, the humming turns to mild singing, which progresses into over dramatic belting.

“Can you kill it with  _ The Cranberries _ ,” Eddie calls out with his faced stuffed with some black gunk. “God, I feel like my ears are gonna bleed.”

“I’m sorry would you prefer I serenade you with some Kate Bush?”

Eddie spits out the shit in his mouth, and actually turns around to face Richie, hands on his hips like a displeased soccer mom. “Richie, if you don’t—

“— _ And if I only could. I'd make a deal with God _ —”

“—Okay, very fucking funny, Ri—”

“— _ And I'd get him to swap our places _ —”

“—You sound awful. I don’t know how you can listen to yourself—”

“— _ Be running up that road. Be running up that _ —”

“—Enough,” Eddie finally snaps, but he’s laughing despite himself. “Jesus, you are tone deaf as shit.”

“You asked for it, Spaghetti. I’m only trying to be a supportive friend, and help you through trauma or whatever this whole situation is.” And Richies smiling too, wider than he thinks possible. The nagging pit inside him loosens just a bit. 

Then Eddie throws a towel at him. It lands smack dab in the middle of Richie’s face, knocking his glasses halfway off his head.

“ _ Ow _ ,” Richie yelps. “How fucking old are you?” 

“That did not hurt, you big fucking baby,” Eddie rolls his eyes and steps back into the bathroom. “And you deserved it anyway, disrupting my nightly routine with your banshee screeching.”

“Speaking of your insanely complicated nighttime rituals,” He says adjusting his glasses back into place. “You done using up my entire bathroom yet?”

“Yeah, just gimme a minute to wipe up.”  
  


“Alright,” Richie says once he’s walked Eddie back to his room. There’s about a foot between them, Eddie in the doorway, Richie facing him just outside it. He thinks about going up and hugging RIchie, but then he immediately decides against it. Something about the act feels like teetering too far into something unknown.  _ Stop being so fucking weird about everything _ , _ Eds _ , he tells himself.

They didn’t hug as kids. No, they kicked and bit and punched each other like little fucking savages. Richie was all hands growing up, and Eddie was all claws. They loved each other tooth and nail. They were boys being rough, every embrace was carved from pain. Eddie remembers having an angry sort of want rooted deep in him. 

So of course he doesn’t hug Richie. Neither of them has ever wanted that.

“Goodnight man,” Richie says cutting through Eddies train of thought. 

Richie begins to move back into the direction of his own room and something desperate in Eddie kicks in.

“Wait, Richie,” Eddie says, surprising himself.

“Yeah, Eds,” Richie’s eyebrows are just slightly pinched together and his face is some dance between dread and hope. He looks not unlike a kicked puppy and his crooked smile makes Eddie’s hands itch. 

“Thanks,” Eddie says _ . Say more, fucking more damnit _ , he’s screaming behind his teeth.  _ Say I love you like a normal fucking friend. _

Eddie could only ever say it earnestly when we was with the Losers. Only if was it drowned out and carried by the rest of them echoing the phrase. Eddie’s “I love you’s” we’re always dragged out of him by the ones expecting ( _ What do you say before you leave Eddie Bear? Eddie you didn’t say I love too _ ), they were never his words to say. 

Only when it mattered did it sit dormant behind his teeth, a raging want heavy on his throat. Behind the snapping and the arguing and the God awful rage, Eddie loved quiet.

So the only words that can fall out from his lips are, “For all of this.”

“Yeah of course,” Richie says with a soft smile. “We got each other, Eds. Always have.”

Eddies heart feel ten times heavier as he closes his door and listens to Richie walk away.    
  


Richie had really hoped that having Eddie in the house might improve his sleeping schedule. But of course Richie, like most nights, wakes in the middle of a half formed scream, tangled in his sheets drenched in sweat, with his heart hammering in his ears. 

He never remembers his nightmares fully, he only ever has flashes of whatever hellscape he was just being smothered in. He knows he was in the dead lights again, hovering like a parody of an angel, and Eddie was bleeding out somewhere beneath him, just out of reach. He thinks he can still almost hear him, a mangled scream echoing in his ears.

Then he hears it again.

And Richie is jumping out of bed because the real Eddie isn’t even a full hallway away, and every natural instinct in Richie’s body is going off. In big red letters playing through Richie’s mind are the words,  _ he needs and you’re not there again, you can never save him, he will always be bleeding out _ . Richie throws open Eddie’s door in a frenzied panic, ready to burst in teeth bared and guns blazing and then he sees Eddie—

Eddie, who is bent over scrubbing at an invisible spot on the floor, sweating and frantic surrounded by bottles of different cleaning agents and detergents. He is dressed in what looks like a matching set of pajamas, which Richie does not have time to get into. Richie also notices that Eddie has opened most of his suitcases, all varying in levels of unpacked. Alongside the suitcases, Richie recognizes the rooms bedding, stripped and folded in a corner of the room. 

“Eddie, it is 4:00 in the goddamned morning, what the ever loving  _ fuck _ are you doing,” He says, and he can’t tell if he’s gone totally slacked jaw or not, but he is getting there.

Eddie practically jumps out of his skin, and turns to Richie with an offended look,  _ as if he has the right. _ “Jesus Christ, Richie. You scared the absolute fuck out of me,” Eddie hisses metaphorcally clutching his pearls.

“I scar_—_ I scared _you,” _Richie says. “It sounded like you were being fucking asphyxiated. I thought you were _dying. _And you have the gall to say _I_ scared _you_. You are un-fucking-believeable, Kaspbrak.”

“It’s not my fault that you have thin as shit walls,” Eddie says crossing his arms. 

They are at a strange level to have an argument, with Richie literally towering over Eddie, who is sat cross legged on the floor. Richie feels a little like he’s scolding a child, even though that child is a little rat bastard who nearly gave him a heart attack. “Why are you even up, dude?”

“Would you believe I’m still used to wrong timezone as an excuse,” Eddie asks, chewing at his lip.

“Fat fucking chance,” Richie says crossing his own arms now, to match Eddie.

“Listen, okay,” Eddie says and he starts to run a hand through his hair. Richie can see in his eyes that he’s starting to work himself up. “I-I-I was going to go to bed, like I was really was fucking exhausted, but then I kept smelling something, and I was sure it was the sheets. So of course I stripped the bed, ‘cause, Rich, this smell was putrid, like if cat shit and dried vomit made love, there was no sleeping with it. But then it was  _ still _ fucking there. So my next thought process, was well it has to be my clothes, right? Something must of got on them in the airport, you can never fucking trust airports, Richie. So I got to my suitcases and I go to find clean clothes and every single goddamn bag smelled. So now I’m thinking this shit is in the walls, or maybe even in the fucking floorboards. Honestly, Richie I think something died in here. So I’ve been scrubbing for the past hour, and I really think I’m making a dent, the smell is, like, slightly better.”

“Did you bring own shit? I’m not some fucking animal, Eddie, I have my own cleaning supplies,” He takes a pause, before he connects the dots. “Did you not think I had  _ my own fucking cleaning supplies _ ?”

“Richie, you used to only brush your teeth once a day.”

“I was twelve!”

“You were seventeen,” Eddie snaps back. He grabs the towel he was using prior to Richie’s intrusion, and goes back to scrubbing at imaginary stain. “I’m tired of talking to about this, because you clearly do not give a shit. So if you’d please let me go back to my cleaning, so I can go the fuck to sleep.”

“Eddie, it doesn’t even smell _ —” _

Richie pauses, takes four long and deep breathes, then he clasps his hands together, closing his eyes. He is going to deal with this like an adult, so help him God.

“No, okay, fuck this. Eddie, hey.  _ Stop _ .” Richie grabs Eddie’s hands away from whatever bleach byproduct he was clasping onto, and steadies him until Eddie is meeting his eyes. “Stop it. I have a cleaning lady, a very, very good one. She works for the building, and my agent made sure I hired her, cause like you, my agent thinks I’m a fucking mess. She made sure that she was fucking fanatsic, and frankly she is. You can meet her, she works on Tuesdays, her name’s Lidiya. You’ll like her.  _ Please _ , Eddie, everything in this house has been scrubbed down and taken care of. We can let it go and go to sleep.”

“But, Rich _ — _ ”

“Listen, I know it’s on your mind,  _ I know _ . But you need to get out of your fucking head,” Richie realizes he’s still holding Eddie’s hands and quickly drops them. He searches Eddie’s face to still see he has a bit of a crazed look in his eyes. 

Richie pushes his glasses off his face to rub at his eyes. “Uh, just wait here for a sec, I’ll be right back.” 

“Richie, I'm not some _ — _ ”

“Eds, stay there and be quiet,” Richie calls already halfway down the hallway. 

“Stop calling me Eds, for fucksakes,” he can hear Eddie say distantly.

Richie rushes to his room, and furiously digs through his junk drawer, until he sees a small, brightly colored toy. 

“Here,” Richie says a little out of breath, once he’s back to Eddie’s room, and he tosses the toy into Eddie’s lap.

“What the fuck is this,” Eddie says giving him a sharp look.

“You know exactly what it is,” Richie says matter of factly.

“Why did you give me a fucking Rubix Cube, Richie,” Eddie holds up the cube and shakes it in Richie’s direction. 

“‘Cause you're going to sit here and solve it and we're not going to bed until you do. So you better get solving, Eduardo, for both our forty year old sakes.”

“Richie—” 

“I know you know how to solve it, even if you don’t remember yet. But I’m going to be sitting right here until that thing is monochrome.”

“That’s not even _ —  _ You know what, RIchie? You can’t just put some bright colored shit in front of me and expect everything to be perfectly hunky-fucking-dory like I’m some little kid throwing a tantrum,” Eddie snaps back. He finally gets up from his place on the floor and begins to pace around.

“What? You don’t think you can solve it,” Richie asks.

“No that’s not what I'm saying, I can solve that thing perfectly fine,” Eddie says. 

“Then prove it,” Richie says and steps a little closer to Eddie. “Prove that you can solve a children’s toy, Spaghetti Man.”

“I can't fucking believe you,” Eddie says as he settles down on his matteress.

They sit there for nearly twenty minutes before Eddie stops suddenly, getting washed over with a distant look in his eyes. Then in a blink he starts to move his fingers at a rapid pace, and the cube is solved. 

“Wow, Eds, that was—”

“Shut up. We are gong the fuck to bed,” Eddie says voice wrecked with exhaustion that wasn’t there before. “I am never touching a rubix cube, again.” 

He falls back and collapses on his bed swinging an arm over his eyes, looking like something close to peaceful.

Richie slowly gets up and slips off the bed as to not totally disturb Eddie, who is halfway asleep. He is just starting to head to his own bedroom and bed, when Eddie sits up just slightly, and asks, “Where are you going?”

“To bed, Eddie,” Richie says, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice. “Like you said.” 

“Oh,” Eddie almost whispers, and if Richie was naive enough he’d think Eddie sounded disappointed. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> find me @dogmotifs on tumblr


End file.
